What’s a Race Club When It’s Not a Race Club Sportsfans? – A Brisbane Racing Club That’s What – Or a Mere Nev/Gimp Poor Made Up Pre-Text For One Anyway

declk.jpg

Sweet mother of Mary race lovers, have you ever had a close Captain Cook at the Brisbane Racing Club’s Strategic Plan?

No of course you haven’t, because it’s such sh*t-boring, turgid, neo-new age spokn absolute f*cking nonsense that only a moron, the report’s author Dave ‘the Gimp’ Whimpey, or a constipated bloke who’s been up all night punting on the pommy gallops and drinking gallons of Coke that have slowed the movement of his bowels right down would ever waste their precious time on it.

The first two categories of Strategic Plan readers were dropped by the same sire and mare, and I’m the pommy gallops punter sitting on the throne.

Let me give you the quick low down on the club’s plans for racing in BrisVegas, and trust me it’s f*cking frightening.

The starting point is a consensus between BRC Chairman (his word not mine) ‘Nifty’ Neville Bell and the former Casino food and beverage man turned club CEO Dave ‘the Gimp’ Whimpey that racing is no longer the core business of the Brisbane Racing Club.

I kid you not.

core.jpg

The BRC in their wisdom have decided to abandon the ambition shared by race clubs the world over to put on high-quality crackers of cards that attract people back to the track to bask in a glorious day of high quality horse racing, the imbibing of copious amounts of beer served in seven ounce glasses, and a slaying of the satchel swingers that fills punters pockets to overflowing with crisp new pineapple notes.

That sh*t’s all old hat.

After all, this is a RACING CLUB, NOT A racing club, and we have a brand spanking, bright shiny new ambition that has nothing whatsoever to do with those four legged freaks mounted by whip wielding midgets practicing a strict vegan diet of lettuce leaves and water who left school at at the age of fourteen.

We’ve carried those little c*nts for far too long, and their bloody horses just crap all over the place and leave us ending up with shit everywhere over the soles of our shoes.

F*ck racing.

It’s a dead end street full of dickheads, drop kicks, dead beats, and desperates and a club with a proud 150 year history doesn’t need sans ambition sub-class clowns like them clogging up Nev and Dave’s world class turf-laid car parks does it?  And there’s no space for gambling junkie’s Gemini’s anymore anyway because we sold the car park last week to create an up-weighted drop off babysitting center for the kiddies.

 

The BRC has a new purpose,

Our club’s going to close it’s eyes and cross it’s fingers and imagine so hard that we’ve morphed into a leading SEQ entertainment, events and hospitality location that when we open our eyes again we’ll find that all our wishes have come true.

How we actually turn a leading location into a red-hot revenue-rich operational business is another question, and one that tropical island paradise’s like Daydream Island have been grappling with for decades, but let’s not put the horse before the cart here sportsfans and let’s keep our eye on the things that really matter.

  • Up-weighted gardens;
  • Improved YOY visitation, spend and profit;
  • Superior financial performance against prescribed IRR’s across all capital and projects;
  • Cultural reset productivity / winningness; and of course the big one,
  • Up-weighted race day experiences (gardens, food, entertainment)

dovba.jpg

The jockey boys have been calling for a rise in the minimum weights ever since McDonalds was invented, and if we can throw in a stunning garden as a bonus the midgets will be as happy as Larry and the whole wide and whacky BrisVegas racing fraternity will sleep soundly at night safe in the knowledge that the blokes in ill-fiitting suits who run the Once Upon a Time We Were a Turf Club have got things totally sussed.

After all everyone pays a lobster and a quarter at the gate just so they go and stare at the Doomben begonia bed and sniff the Eagle Farm roses on the rare occasion that the joint’s open for racing don’t they?

key.jpg

Nifty Nev and the Gimp are right across it sportsfans, and are experts in their chosen field of turning a once great race clubs into sh*t sandwiches, and we should put our faith in the pair to lead us to glory or at least die flogging the very last family jewel trying,

I mean come on punters be serious, who else is going to turn Eden Park, Auckland into a Melbourne Stars game at the MCG and pretend that it has anything to do with Brisbane horse racing?

eden.jpg

footy.jpg

Or turn the old St Leger Stand at Eagle Farm on a non-racing Monday into the Theatre of the Horse in Sydney on a Saturday afternoon, replete with face painted Bet Fairy’s, rock bands, one of the wankers from the TAB ads on Sky Racing 1 and a bunch of 100 meter sprinters dressed up as lions, bears and blue sharks bolting down the home straight during the two minutes in every forty that back in the dark ages used to be filled by silly races between four legged, barrel chested, shoe-hooved freaks?

dis.jpg

disaa.jpg

No one except Nifty and the Gimp, that’s the simple bloody truth.

Only visionaries like this magnificent pair of dead-batting dead-beats would have the verve and the imagination to employ neo-modernist deconstructionist techniques as a tool to reinterpret long form, rarely played test cricket matches as Brisbane Racing Clubs and frame the severely abridged and absolutely overplayed minimalist T20 version of the game that most thought was more pertinent to the board and members of the Queensland Cricketer’s Club as the Melbourne Cup.

Mark my words such a transcendental transformational type of genius is a rare talent possessed only by our very own version of Sonny and Cher, and today for the first time anywhere, ever I can exclusively tip let you in on the secret of the deadly duo’s never hit and always miss success.

It’s called Winningness sportsfans, and it’s precious peroxide-like aroma permeates through everything that Nifty and the Gimp do.

oiv

Don’t ask me to explain the intellectually awe-inspiring concept of Winningness to you though readers, for I am but a mere mortal mug punter and my natural limitations combined with a touch up by a teacher when  I was twelve mean that I’ve never scaled to the heights of selling real estate or running the salad bar on the ground level of Jupiters Casino, and therefor wouldn’t know Winningness from a West Side Story.

I’ll admit I know a tad more than somewhat about passion and shared objectives, because I experience the former and feel the latter 25 days in every month, and confess that I enjoy it immensely, but an unnaturally virulent non-Viagra inspired middle-aged sex drive and a 20 year and still going strong relationship with a hot missus who;s happy to swallow doth not a summer make sportsfans.

IMOS

In fact it doesn’t even pay your way through the gate so you can dash into Doomben and be the first to go mental over the gardens, because after four hours of making mad passionate love thrown in with a bit of bondage at an advanced age a bloke’s too bloody rooted to be running anywhere to smell a bunch of blooming roses, don’t you worry about that, and while the Bead Twirlers sensational nipple’s hanging suspended out of her under-sized but extremely expensive Archie win-on-the-punt purchased sexy brassiere what bloke in his right mind gives a f*ck about flowers anyway?

The Gimp and Nifty, that’s who.

oivw.jpg

Gee I feel sorry for those fellas missus’s, to the point where if they are feeling morose, melancholic and massively frustrated then I’m prepared to offer up a gift of great human kindness and sacrifice a Monday punt on the high-quality races at Murtoa and Macksville and tip the gagging Mrs Gimp/Nifty nymphs into the fact that the boss is always busy at her baby oiled up pole dance classes between one and three on a Monday arvo, and to invite them to catch a taxi over Ellison Road way to enjoy a mind-boggling dip in the Geebung Polo Club spa during the school day hours traditionally set aside for a bit of extra-curricular bed-bouncing business, on the strict proviso that they promise to explain what a Grow ave Saturday is, and school me up on the art of activating average race-day experiences with a 5-senses strategy when you’re not shagging two MILF’s in a threesome under the fine cotton 500 thread maroon tinged satin sheets.

sucka.jpg

With a bit of luck after the five-mile jumps are finished and the fillies and mares are spent they might even have enough breath left to explain to me how a race club whose bosses are intent on turning it into a bar/nightclub restaurant could possibly almost double its membership numbers when they’ve closed off the admission of new members.

Or how they can reduce the club’s cost profile without cutting jobs or wages, or increase the customer spend on tucker by ten percent without whacking the price of a pie and peas and a roast beef and gravy roll up by the same percentage in parallel.

Personally I’ve always shared the Gimp’s belief that redirecting capital into earnings accretive assets, up-weighting the soft finishes and and FFE, re-packaging your sales and marketing collateral and aligning your team so that there’s a whole lot less of them than there was before is the answer.

groows.jpg

But hey I’m just a mad mug punter who once upon a time actually truly believed that the role of a race club was to promote racing, so what the hell would Archie know?

Quick answer?

A whole bloody heap. and we’ll leave it that.

Good luck and have a winning day.

One way or the other I usually do.

The key’s under the rock on the second step lovely. Get rid of you gear, flick off the fascinator, let yourself and other bird up for a threesome in and make yourself comfortable.

I’ll be with you straight after they cross the line in the Cup at Coober Peedy.

coobs.jpg

Sweet mother of Mary race lovers, have you ever had a close Captain Cook at the Brisbane Racing Club’s Strategic Plan?

No of course you haven’t, because it’s such sh*t-boring, turgid, neo-new age speak absolute f*cking nonsense that only a moron, the report’s author Dave Whimpey, or a constipated bloke who’s been up all night punting on the pommy gallops and drinking gallons of Coke that have slowed the movement of his bowels right down would ever waste their precious time on it.

The first two categories of Strategic Plan readers were dropped by the same sire and mare, and I’m the pommy gallops punter sitting on the throne.

Let me give you the quick low down on the club’s plans for racing in BrisVegas, and trust me it’s f*cking frightening.

The starting point is a consensus between BRC Chairman (his word not mine) Neville Bell and the former Casino food and beverage man turned club CEO Dave Whimpey that racing is no longer the core business of the Brisbane Racing Club.

I kid you not.

core.jpg

The BRC in their wisdom have decided to abandon the ambition shared by race clubs the world over to put on high-quality crackers of cards that attract people back to the track to bask in a glorious day of high quality horse racing, the imbibing of copious amounts of beer served in seven ounce glasses, and a slaying of the satchel swingers that fills punters pockets to overflowing with crisp new pineapple notes.

That sh*t’s all old hat.

After all, this is a RACING CLUB, NOT A racing club, and we have a brand spanking, bright shiny new ambition that has nothing whatsoever to do with those four legged freaks mounted by whip wielding midgets practicing a strict vegan diet of lettuce leaves and water who left school at at the age of fourteen.

We’ve carried those little c*nts for far too long, and their bloody horses just crap all over the place and leave us ending up with shit everywhere over the soles of our shoes.

F*ck racing.

It’s a dead end street full of dickheads, drop kicks, dead beats, and desperates and a club with a proud 150 year history doesn’t need sans ambition sub-class clowns like them clogging up Nev and Dave’s world class turf-laid car parks does it?  And there’s no space for gambling junkie’s Gemini’s anymore anyway because we sold the car park last week to create an up-weighted drop off babysitting center for the kiddies.

The BRC has a new purpose,

Our club’s going to close it’s eyes and cross it’s fingers and imagine so hard that we’ve morphed into a leading SEQ entertainment, events and hospitality location that when we open our eyes again we’ll find that all our wishes have come true.

How we actually turn a leading location into a red-hot revenue-rich operational business is another question, and one that tropical island paradise’s like Daydream Island have been grappling with for decades, but let’s not put the horse before the cart here sportsfans and let’s keep our eye on the things that really matter.

  • Up-weighted gardens;
  • Improved YOY visitation, spend and profit;
  • Superior financial performance against prescribed IRR’s across all capital and projects;
  • Cultural reset productivity / winningness; and of course the big one,
  • Up-weighted race day experiences (gardens, food, entertainment)

dovba.jpg

The jockey boys have been calling for a rise in the minimum weights ever since McDonalds was invented, and if we can throw in a stunning garden as a bonus the midgets will be as happy as Larry and the whole wide and whacky BrisVegas racing fraternity will sleep soundly at night safe in the knowledge that the blokes in ill-fiitting suits who run the Once Upon a Time We Were a Turf Club have got things totally sussed.

After all everyone pays a lobster and a quarter at the gate just so they go and stare at the Doomben begonia bed and sniff the Eagle Farm roses on the rare occasion that the joint’s open for racing don’t they?

key.jpg

Nifty Nev and the Gimp are right across it sportsfans, and are experts in their chosen field of turning a once great race clubs into sh*t sandwiches, and we should put our faith in the pair to lead us to glory or at least die flogging the very last family jewel trying,

I mean come on punters be serious, who else is going to turn Eden Park, Auckland into a Melbourne Stars game at the MCG and pretend that it has anything to do with Brisbane horse racing?

eden.jpg

footy.jpg

Or turn the old St Leger Stand at Eagle Farm on a non-racing Monday into the Theatre of the Horse in Sydney on a Saturday afternoon, replete with face painted Bet Fairy’s, rock bands, one of the wankers from the TAB ads on Sky Racing 1 and a bunch of 100 meter sprinters dressed up as lions, bears and blue sharks bolting down the home straight during the two minutes in every forty that back in the dark ages used to be filled by silly races between four legged, barrel chested, shoe-hooved freaks?

dis.jpg

disaa.jpg

No one except Nifty and the Gimp, that’s the simple bloody truth.

Only visionaries like this magnificent pair of dead-batting dead-beats would have the verve and the imagination to employ neo-modernist deconstructionist techniques as a tool to reinterpret long form, rarely played test cricket matches as Brisbane Racing Clubs and frame the severely abridged and absolutely overplayed minimalist T20 version of the game that most thought was more pertinent to the board and members of the Queensland Cricketer’s Club as the Melbourne Cup.

Mark my words such a transcendental transformational type of genius is a rare talent possessed only by our very own version of Sonny and Cher, and today for the first time anywhere, ever I can exclusively tip let you in on the secret of the deadly duo’s never hit and always miss success.

It’s called Winningness sportsfans, and it’s precious peroxide-like aroma permeates through everything that Nifty and the Gimp do.

oiv

Don’t ask me to explain the intellectually awe-inspiring concept of Winningness to you though readers, for I am but a mere mortal mug punter and my natural limitations combined with a touch up by a teacher when  I was twelve mean that I’ve never scaled to the heights of selling real estate or running the salad bar on the ground level of Jupiters Casino, and therefor wouldn’t know Winningness from a West Side Story.

I’ll admit I know a tad more than somewhat about passion and shared objectives, because I experience the former and feel the latter 25 days in every month, and confess that I enjoy it immensely, but an unnaturally virulent non-Viagra inspired middle-aged sex drive and a 20 year and still going strong relationship with a hot missus who;s happy to swallow doth not a summer make sportsfans.

IMOS

In fact it doesn’t even pay your way through the gate so you can dash into Doomben and be the first to go mental over the gardens, because after four hours of making mad passionate love thrown in with a bit of bondage at an advanced age a bloke’s too bloody rooted to be running anywhere to smell a bunch of blooming roses, don’t you worry about that, and while the Bead Twirlers sensational nipple’s hanging suspended out of her under-sized but extremely expensive Archie win-on-the-punt purchased sexy brassiere what bloke in his right mind gives a f*ck about flowers anyway?

The Gimp and Nifty, that’s who.

oivw.jpg

Gee I feel sorry for those fellas missus’s, to the point where if they are feeling morose, melancholic and massively frustrated then I’m prepared to offer up a gift of great human kindness and sacrifice a Monday punt on the high-quality races at Murtoa and Macksville and tip the gagging Mrs Gimp/Nifty nymphs into the fact that the boss is always busy at her baby oiled up pole dance classes between one and three on a Monday arvo, and to invite them to catch a taxi over Ellison Road way to enjoy a mind-boggling dip in the Geebung Polo Club spa during the school day hours traditionally set aside for a bit of extra-curricular bed-bouncing business, on the strict proviso that they promise to explain what a Grow ave Saturday is, and school me up on the art of activating average race-day experiences with a 5-senses strategy when you’re not shagging two MILF’s in a threesome under the fine cotton 500 thread maroon tinged satin sheets.

sucka.jpg

With a bit of luck after the five-mile jumps are finished and the fillies and mares are spent they might even have enough breath left to explain to me how a race club whose bosses are intent on turning it into a bar/nightclub restaurant could possibly almost double its membership numbers when they’ve closed off the admission of new members.

Or how they can reduce the club’s cost profile without cutting jobs or wages, or increase the customer spend on tucker by ten percent without whacking the price of a pie and peas and a roast beef and gravy roll up by the same percentage in parallel.

Personally I’ve always shared the Gimp’s belief that redirecting capital into earnings accretive assets, up-weighting the soft finishes and and FFE, re-packaging your sales and marketing collateral and aligning your team so that there’s a whole lot less of them than there was before is the answer.

groows.jpg

But hey I’m just a mad mug punter who once upon a time actually truly believed that the role of a race club was to promote racing, so what the hell would Archie know?

Quick answer?

A whole bloody heap. and we’ll leave it that.

Good luck and have a winning day.

One way or the other I usually do.

The key’s under the rock on the second step lovely. Get rid of you gear, flick off the fascinator, let yourself and other bird up for a threesome in and make yourself comfortable.

I’ll be with you straight after they cross the line in the Cup at Coober Peedy.

coobs.jpg

Think the Anglican Church Has Changed? – Then Think Again – Archbishop ‘Dr Phil’ Aspinall and His Craven Lying Pedophile Protecting Crew Caught Out Trying to Con Victims of Institutional Child Sexual Abuse Into Helping Save the Kiddy Fiddler Ringleader Who Destroyed Their Hopes and Dreams – and Put Twelve Good Little Boys Into Early Graves – Its a God Damned F*cking Disgrace

arec123

dog.jpg

I’ve just read the Royal Commission’s report on Criminal Justice and suddenly I realise why you are investigating Gilbert Case and want me – and almost certainly others – to give evidence that will support your now so bloody obviously pre-planned scheme to kick Case out of the Church. I’m an idiot for not having seen it before, but in my defence you had a draft of the Royal Commission report well before I ever saw a copy so you did have an unfair advantage and quite a considerable head start.

You already know the next bit, but I’m repeating it for the benefit of others who will read this missive on my website as I absolutely intend to publish it and will be doing so as soon as I click the send button on this email.

The Child Abuse Royal Commission – quite rightly – recommends the introduction of a criminal offence that renders people in positions of authority within institutions culpable for failing to protect a child or children from being abused in the institution in circumstances where the person in authority knew, or on a reasonable assessment of the facts should have known, that the child was at risk of being abused.

And the Commission forcefully recommends that the laws be made retrospective, which creates whole lot of problems for a whole lot of people who have hitherto hidden behind the fiction that community standards were such in the 1980’s (and before and beyond) that average Australians didn’t expect school teachers and principals or church officials to take action to prevent children from being raped and abused.

arec1.jpg

To use my own experience as an example, what this proposed new law means is it if it can be demonstrated that on the balance of probabilities that Gilbert Case, the St Paul’s School Headmaster during the period of my abuse, knew that I was being abused or at risk of being abused – and you and I both know full f*cking well that he did, because prior to Case Study 34 I told you certain things about what happened to me that have subsequently proven to be deadly accurate and spot right on  – then he can be charged with, prosecuted for, and found guilty of criminal offences and in the event of the latter would almost certainly will be sentenced to period of imprisonment as the price of having committed such heinous crimes.

BUT – and this is why you are personally such a f*cking low-life dog, and know it too – IF CASE IS NO LONGER ASSOCIATED WITH THE CHURCH AT THE TIME HE IS INVESTIGATED IN RELATION TO THE CRIMES, THEN HE CANNOT UNDER THE PROPOSED NEW LAW BE PROSECUTED.

arec12.jpg

That’s the real reason – the only reason, you know it and now I do too – that after five months of inaction following the release of the Case Study 34 findings you all of a sudden have become eager to investigate Gilbert Case, and it is why I know that you have jacked up an agreement with the evil pedophile who admits to being Kevin Lynch’s second best friend which will result in his excommunication from the church and the severing of all ties.

You want to protect him.

After all these years and all these tears and twelve boys lying dead in the cold ground whose names are etched by hand on plaques attached to inner wall of The Beginning of Peace, you still want to protect the abuser who sentenced them to a youth filled with misery and death half a century before their time.

You don’t want Case to be charged.

You bastard, you goddamn duplicitous scumbag piece of sh*t slime.

It’s not about us, the victims: it’s about protecting Case the perpetrator and it always f*cking has been.

Case can’t just resign from the Anglican church and plead to court his resignation letter as a defence to charges of the newly created offence of having prior knowledge and failing to act. No-one would believe him.

For the scam to be successful the church has to sack him.

And it has to sack him in a seemingly transparent and legally bullet proof way, for example by conducting a thorough ‘independent’ investigation run by a presumed outsider who produces a report recommending the sacking based on the accounts provided by induced yet unsuspecting witnesses like me who have spoken out in the belief that the Anglican Church is actually fair dinkum and wants things to change.

The church of course will then follow due process and refer the findings based on the irrefutably accurate account of Case’s crimes given by victims just like me to a duly constituted board of inquiry, and it will do so before the new laws are enacted.

gil case (gildevcase2)

The board of course will determine that Case (pictured above) is a bastard, and expressing mock horror will kick him out of the church, and by doing so will ensure that he is immune now and forever more from prosecution for his role in pimping little kids like me to his pervert mates, and although he won’t be able to officially attend church and take the transmogrified wafer cum body of Christ on his tongue or sip the Good Lord’s miraculously transformed blood, there is nothing more certain in this world than that when he dies the Church will repent and agree to bury him with full Anglican rites.

It’s always been about the abusers hasn’t it?

They know too much and if backed into a corner just might spill their guts. And if that were to happen then folk like the Archbishop and the former Governor-General and the General Manager in charge of the cover-up Bernie Yorke – the man who was once arch-pedophile Clarence Osborne’s boss – would instantly find themselves in a world of pain and with nothing to look forward to in life other than the joy of peering out a tiny barred window at a little tent of blue that prisoners traditionally call the sky.

You can’t have that can you Greg?

So to prevent it you knowingly and deliberately make false representations to battered and bruised and desperate for justice victims just like me, and in our naivety – and in reliance upon the lies you have told us – we unwittingly fall into your fetid trap and become unknowing partners with you in the churches great protect the sick pedophiles and their even sicker protectors game, and the bloke directly responsible for causing us all that pain, the bloke who could have stopped it in a heartbeat, why he just walks away grinning.

Over my f*cking dead body he will.

There was a reason that the Jewish nation through the Simon Wiesenthal Centre, pursued Nazi war criminals unto the grave and continue to pursue them still; and it’s the exact same reason that they practice a doctrine of disproportionate force.

The Israeli’s want the violence and the horror and the wave of seemingly never ending attacks to end, now and for all time. And they know that the only way to make that happen is to make the perpetrators pay the price for their crimes, so that they can be paraded before the world as an example of unrepentant sinners being punished, and a demonstration of the price that evil doers must pay for the horror that they have wrought upon innocents in pursuit of their crimes. If the criminals just so happen to be 95 years of age when the Israeli’s finally catch up with them it is of no consequence, for millions of Jewish may well have lived to that grand old age too if only the old man sitting in the dock weeping hadn’t so cruelly denied them the opportunity to do so when they flicked the switch on a mass gas oven and burnt them to oblivion so far in advance of their God-allotted time.

A desire for vengeance certainly forms part of the motivation inspiring the Israeli approach to such matters, but it is not their main game. They just want to make sure that the horrors of the Holocaust are never revisited and they will pay whatever price is necessary to prevent such evil ever happening again.

Child sexual abuse victims like me feel much the same way. It’s not about the compensation money Mr Milles – I gave all of mine away to people who needed it more in the space of a month – it’s about prevention, and protecting our own kids from having their lives ruined by sick, selfish f*cks who after they’ve groomed and abused us until they become bored or we grow pubic hair forget our very names.

We want the rapes and violence and manipulation and abuse to once once and for all and forever, and to be able to say that no-one will ever suffer such indignities to their bodies and such distortion of their minds ever again, from this moment forth until eternity.

You and the hierarchy of your church who feed you orders just want to protect the pedophiles and stamp a jackboot down on the victims, and have no interest at all in anything other than your, their and the church’s survival and prosperity. F*ck the victims is the underlying strategic philosophy, and the only real message we hear, – not because we’re stupid, but because it’s the only one you are sending – is that we don’t matter to the institutions who profess to represent God on earth any more than an ant underfoot matters to an elephant crashing through a jungle just because they are big enough to do so, and because they can.

Six months passed between the tabling of the Royal Commission’s findings about Gilbert Case’s crimes and the sudden decision of the church to institute action against him. Why Greg? Why? It had nothing to do with the new criminal offences proposed by the Royal Commission did it, or the get out of jail free card slipped into their proposal that can be played by institutions and evil actors as long as they act quick? Nah of course it didn’t, the proximate timing is just all mere coincidence, and pink pigs backwards f*cking fly.

treher

Again using my own case as an example, I told you all about what Case and his minion Father Thomas Treherne had done to me after I told that priest about the evil crimes that had been perpetrated by members of the institution and how it had affected me. I told you that just weeks after I had told my story to the school chaplain the cover-up and the persecution began. I told you how I was threatened, and how my parents were too. I told you how Case and Treherne colluded and conspired and threatened to withdraw my poor boy’s gateway to a good education academic scholarship if I breathed another word about my abuse to a single soul, and how I was stripped of the captaincy of sporting teams, and sentenced to a series of never-ending detentions, and how even though I had been in the top 1% of students since I started at the school I was never awarded an academic prize again.

I showed you the proof of my claims too, there in black and white in original documents from 1983.

trehers1234trehers12

All of this I told and showed you before a single word had passed about St Paul’s in the Royal Commission, and in advance of all the evidence and witness testimony that I could not possibly have known about but which absolutely corroborated my story was led.

You did nothing, other than deny my dying mother the comfort of finally knowing the truth before she left this earth, using every excuse under the sun to avoid admitting that every thing I ever told you had actually happened, and by doing so exacerbating both her and my pain. In the end you only ‘fessed up to the facts of my abuse and its denial because in desperation and driven by the despair of watching my mother die before my very eyes, and being unable to account for all the lost years between us that were caused by the secret of my sexual abuse and the ever-growing tumor of my anguish and pain, I sent you brutally candid photographs of me holding Mum’s hand as she lay on her deathbed on the final night of her life on this earth.

You f*cking bastard, you duplicitous lying prick, I’m 48 years old and I’m crying so hard as I write this that I can rarely f*cking see. I was just a kid Milles, a good kid, a kid who was involved in every community service group at school going, a kid who just wanted to walk in Jesus’s footsteps and help the f*cking world, and Gilbert Case let these perverted, callous criminals try to kill me and put under the same ground that a dozen equally innocent kids now so coldly lie. And all you want to do is continue to protect the c*nt, even after all victims like me have been through, and all that the Royal Commission heard. The devil’s not Satan mate – it’s you. You and every other person in the church you claim as yours that have colluded in this disgraceful charade solely intended to save Gilbert Case from dying inside a much deserved cell. A pox on each and every one of your houses, and begorrah and begone to you all.

On the morning of my Mum’s death the church finally sent my Mum a letter acknowledging what it had done. Accepting and admitting that the crimes against me that I’d spoken out about at such great personal cost to me, my family, and that of my abusers had indeed happened, and that my story was undeniably true. Of course it f*cking it was – I was there when it happened, and who on God’s earth would go through what I did if what they said had happened was not true?

My Mum died just hours after we received your letter. Brought up to be polite, and so tired of cancer and decay and despair and seemingly never-ending conflict I wrote a nice letter to you and said Mum had received great comfort from the church’s belated admissions, but I lied. She was already in a coma long before your last-minute letter arrived and it was far too late for her to be read or to comprehend anything because she was already spinning up to the heaven’s and the only thing that the last vestiges of her earthly form had any strength to do was grasp tightly to my dying inside but not showing it father’s hand.

Your indifference was just unforgivable, but guided by the counsel and advice of some good men who still kept the faith and cared about my future welfare I somehow found it in myself to forgive, and I stretched my hand out in forgiveness to the sinners who had helped cause me so much pain.

And then a prick like you and the craven pack of c*nts who devised this sick save Gilbert Case strategy and sold it to victims like me as if we were fools grabbed my hand of peace and sunk it into your teeth and showed us all what and who you truly are, and what we saw was not good like the earth and the Garden in Eden, it was ugly and looked just like the deepest bowels of hell, and that’s what it is too and take a good. close look at it too Christian because that’s where you are headed.

Your deliberate attempt to coerce child sex abuse victims into cooperating with a crooked inquiry designed to set the conductor of our abuse free is a f*cking dog act of the lowest kind imaginable, and you are a f*cking dog and ‘your’ church is a flea-infested rabies-ridden kennel.

Fuck you.

After all your experiences in dealing with me did you really imagine that even by cruelly exploiting my grief and making my head spin you might somehow be able to get the better of me Milles? Were you actually deluded enough to believe yourself to be that fucking clever? Well here’s the bad news Wavell Heights boy, you aren’t even half way as smart as you imagine yourself to be, and a whole lot dumber to boot.

And if you think that you are going to get away with your evil attempted manipulation of vulnerable victims and your venal deception then you are even more stupid again and clearly haven’t read or understood that bible that you wave around in air for all the world to see. Deuteronomy 32-25 dickhead. I suggest you read it.

You can stick your Gilbert Case investigation fair up your f*cking arse. That c*nt’s an inner player in the church and everybody knows it, and there is a price for his sins that the naked pictures of smooth skinned boys lover has to and is going to pay, and no amount of scheming or lies or disgracefully manipulative deception on your part is going to allow him to avoid it. The only chance he has of freedom is death, but what’s waiting for him when he gets there is something that no freshly departed pedophile ever wants to see, and f*ck it’s hot.

You’re a slime bag cunt Greg Milles and an absolute and utter lowlife piece if shit and if my repeated profanity offends you that’s just dandy because it was totally intended to.

Go to hell sh*thead

You never know, one day you just might just come across an express train to speed you there.

Archie Butterfly

EXCLUSIVE – The Deeply-Depressed Child Abuse Victim, His Big-Titted Best Mate, A Corrupt Former Ipswich Mayor, The New Farm Clinic and Me – A Short Vignette About How Paul Pisasale Spun a Yarn, Pulled the Wool Over a Magistrate’s Eyes and Escaped a Long Wait For Trial Spent in a Remand Centre Prison Cell

gonnne

In late June of this year former Ipswich mayor Paul Pisasale put on a circus performance held a media conference from a ‘mental health facility’, dressed in a gown that looked like it had come thrown in with the tariff from a suite at Trump Towers.

The ‘mental health facility’ was Brisbane’s inner city New Farm Clinic (NFC), a private mental health inpatient/outpatient mini-hospital owned and operated by Ramsay Health Care, and the long time favored bolt hole of famous f*ck-ups who find themselves in the sh*t and want to duck, weave and hide, and stall for time.

At the same time that he was feeding the chooks in New Farm our gown-wearing man about town Pisasale was stumbling around in front of the cameras while on bail on charges of extortion, and was due to reappear in the Brisbane Magistrates Court for a further mention of the charges on the 17th of July. He duly did so and the case against him was remanded for a further mention in September.

Fast forward a few weeks after that and now it’s Wednesday the 2nd of August and I’m in the NFC too, but unlike the conman who’s Taking the Pisa out of us all I’m not swanning around the hotel-like hospital festooned in flannel like a befuddled fool and instead I’m sporting a visitors badge and carrying a secreted packet of smokes that I’ll be slipping the bloke I’m there visiting as soon as hubby kisses him goodbye and f*cks off home to catch the start of My Kitchen Rules..

The reason I’m there in first place rather than sitting at home pulling over porn is that some halfwit of a head-shrinker had put the missus’s best mate,- who was seeking help to deal with the residual slow-burn problems that are prevalent among the community of child-sex abuse victims raped when they were ten – through a series of sessions of self-trauma therapy, which essentially involves making a head-f*cked victim relive the event or events that caused their trauma.

And of course as you’d expect to happen when some dickhead of a doctor cons a patient with an already shaky psyche into reliving the joy of having a 37 year old teacher with bile-inducing B.O sinking his lube-less dick into the patient’s arse, the Bride’s poor bastard of a best mate had a breakdown and had to be hospitalised, and because he was lucky enough to hold private health insurance the Bride’s mate been able to secure a bed in the NFC, the ducks nuts of BrisVegas nuthouses.

Naturally the first thing I asked the missus’s mate after slipping him the ciggies and inquiring after his health was ‘Have you seen that c*nt Paul Pisasale since you’ve been in here? Do you know what room number he’s in?’,

I was most disappointed in his reply though I have to say, for while the Bride’s bestie kicked off by informing me that yes he had met Mr Taking the Pisa and that they’d spent some time together talking about their shared interests in art and investment properties, he then went on to add that it was his melancholic duty to inform me that the Pisasale pidgeon had flown the coop some weeks ago, and that the Mayor with the Elvis complex had left the building at that time and hadn’t been seen since.

Now working on the principle of it taking one to know one, and realising that I was sitting in the lounge of a loony bin, I decided I’d need to double check the Bride’s best mate’s story before I took it as gospel,  and so knowing that the clinical staff would have had the words ‘Privacy Act’ tattooed onto their cortex’s, I discreetly slipped up to the servery counter and started charming the sweetheart behind the bain-marie.

Inevitably within mere minutes I had the ladel-wielding lovely spellbound, and the moment I confirmed it by giving her left bouncer a sneaky tweak and copping a lusty smile instead of a straight left hook I popped the question.

“Have you seen that Taking the Pisa c*nt around here anywhere sweetheart”.

“He was here, but he left a couple of weeks ago” was her reply, and she added the observation that “He was a queer sort of bird that one, he just didn’t seem quite as mad as the other punters, if you know what I mean”.

I knew what she meant alright, but checked it out for a third time by chatting up one of the contract cleaners, a 21-year-old Nepali bird with a body like Bridget Bardot and a fair splash of the Neve Campbell in her eyes, and putting the question to her too while inspecting I was inspecting her uniform for stains and watching her weave magic with a cake of Coal Tar Soap in the staff shower, and the answer she gave in between moans was identical: Taking the Pisa had pissed off.

A couple of days later I picked up the paper to peruse over a somewhat earlier than usual midday breakfast and blow me down with flying pigs feather this is what I found before my bleary half-opened pork pies:

takpisa.jpg

WTF?

Hold the phone!

How could Pisasale be ‘remaining’ in a mental health facility when he wasn’t even there just six days before?  What of new scam was this compulsive crook pulling now?

A quick bit of Googling and it all became clear.

The day after I’d visited the Bride’s best mate in the NFC and searched high and low for Taking the Pisa and found him nowhere to be seen he’d been served with a summons on fresh charges, perverting the course of justice this time.

No-one including the Police or the CCC have ever said where Taking the Pisa was when they handed the invite he couldn’t refuse to attend court the next week, and that’s a bit odd, but it seems obvious that when he opened the wherever it was door and discovered the sheriff’s summons bearing deputy on the landing the rat cunning dodger from the ‘Swich must have twigged immediately that the CCC had been tapping his phone and taping his calls, which meant that his and their near two decade protection racket was over, and realised that he had a rather somewhat bigger than huge problem.

A problem that he urgently needed some time and some uninterrupted thinking space to develop a strategy to escape the noose by coming up with at least a half- plausible story that might neutralise the no doubt highly damning and extremely damaging recordings made by his one time good friends.

So knowing that swindles worked once and undetected usually work twice Taking the Pisa did just as he had done before and took the dive.

He checked himself back into the New Farm Clinic, and he could not in a million years have been there more than six days before his laywers rocked up to court and made the carefully crafted totally bogus but simultaneously legally precise and factually correct submission about their conman’s health, place of residence and short-term future that day that is reported on in the Brisbane Times article excerpted above.

See the lawyers never actually said that Taking the Pisa had been in the New Farm Clinic the whole time since June when he first appeared in court, they just gave the decided and deliberately invoked impression that he had.

The lawyers actual words were that Taking the Pisa ‘remained in a mental health facility’, and that he wasn’t ‘in a fit state to be questioned by authorities’, and that his treating psycho’s ‘couldn’t give an estimate of when he would be fit to leave’ the New Farm Clinic.

Here are the obvious questions that anyone with an analytical brain and radar for bullshit and bullshit artists would have asked after they read Taking the Pisa’s lawyers submissions:

Here’s one.

“Mr Taking the Pisa remains in a facility does he? When did the Apollinaire ‘days go by, I remain’ clock start Sunshine? When was the c*nt most recently admitted? Give us a date, a receipt and a letter from the head quack in charge of the joint.”

Here’s another.

“How come your c*nt of a client’s not in a fit state to be interviewed? Is Taking the Pisa pissed out of his head on someone else’s grog or something? Is  he all pilled up? Has the bugger been drumming the beat to the Colombian Marching Band theme song again? Is he bunging on the Vincent ‘the Chin’ Gigante (below) again? Or is it something altogether totally different? Please explain, and support your explanation with signed and affirmed documentary evidence.”

chinirt.jpg

And here’s a third.

“I see that the quacks are saying they can’t even take a stab in the dark at when they might give Taking the Pisa the all clear to piss off from the clinic. Tell me, Is the reason for that because the quacks haven’t actually seen him? You know, because the c*nt’s only just checked in and readmitted, and for whatever reason you’ve explained in response to my second question above he’s in an unfit state to be interviewed or examined, so no medical practitioner has actually had the opportunity to properly assess the prick and sketch out a prognosis?”

They’re pretty obvious questions if you take my first hand evidence as the gospel truth that it is and think about it, particularly if you work from the premise that a high-profile public figure who’s been slapped with separate and discretely different charges of extortion and perverting justice’s course after earlier been pinched at an airport with 50 large bearing residue traces of powdered narcotics in his pocket might just be the sort of character who’d outslip an eel, and exercise due caution.

Do you reckon anyone at Taking the Pisa’s court hearing did other than his own lawyer?

Nup.

They might be well versed in drafting pleadings in a poncey, seventeenth-century structured form these private school boys who hang around inns and bars, and no doubt the more highly skilled ones have an outstanding knowledge and understanding of precedent and statute law, but let’s call spades spades and shovels shovels and agree all that shit is just totally derivative, and although admittedly the level is higher it’s really not much more of a skill than learning your times table by rote.

What I’m saying is that most of retards frocking in robes aren’t anywhere near as f*cking smart as they give the impression they are, and there is hardly a bloke or bird among them who could think outside the box while on their feet even if an Eastern Brown bit ’em on the arse to help on their way.

There is one though.

Taking the Pisa’s lawyer who drafted the proceedings.

That bloke can think and act quick and do it damn well, don’t you worry about that.

But you wouldn’t pay two cents for the rest of them.

cranny.jpg

One big-shot criminal defence lawyer, and one very smart c*nt

Inspired by Amazing Grace and Her Gag-Inducing Claims to Greatness, Archie Gives You His Trifecta Tips in the Best and Worst Queensland Racing Ministers of the Last Forty Years WFA Stakes

THE BEST

VictorianCollections-large.jpg

Russell J. Hinze – National Party

Whether you loved or hated the corrupt brothel-loving kickback king was a matter of personal taste, but it’s pretty hard for anyone to argue that Big Russ wasn’t the greatest Racing Minister Queensland has seen in the last half-century bar none and by panels.

Big Russ – Russo to his mates – was a drunk, a rooter, a crook and an incorrigible dodger. His political career was a long series of putting his hands in the till, he escaped jail by carking it while facing multiple charges wholesale bribe-taking (the big man pioneered the art of buying penthouses off the plan from property developers that he’d given the sly nudge and wink and a favorable rezoning to, using their money in the form of loans and mortgages advanced by them to his missus’s company and never paying it back), and it is highly likely – though since his and other’s demise unprovable – that he was either directly involved with or benefited from the drug importation trade, in particular during his period as Police Minister from 1980-82 in the aftermath of the police-inspired Wilson drug courier murders by the Mr Asia syndicate.

But goddamn he was a great Racing Minister, and if you can find anyone in the Queensland racing industry who disagrees then give me their number, and I’ll forward them that of my psychiatrist.

And of course just as a cherry on top Big Russ also grand-sired Kristy, in the process busting open forever the myth that a whack with the ugly stick can’t be bred out by matching a stallion with the right mare.

Great Racing Ministers?

Russel Hinze first, daylight second.

gibbsy.jpg

Bob Gibbs – Australian Labor Party

Good-time Gibbsy – daylight – was the last of the great rogues of the Big Russ tradition to hold the Racing Portfolio, and history proves him Hay List to Hinze’s Black Caviar and Hartnell to his Winx.

Gibbs was a mad punter, and insatiable skirt jockey, a chronic pisshead and perennial moths in his empty wallet man who utterly repudiated the once widely-held dictum that more than a handful was a waste, and proved it on the electoral office desk in the weeks that his missus used to be away in Canberra attending the Senate.

He was no fool Good-Time Gibbsy, despite what some who point to all the zeroes on his bank statement say. But they’re just wankers with no idea about cold hands and winning streaks and the distances in between.

Good-Time Gibbsy was a great Racing Minister and I’m not alone in wishing that he hadn’t run all up all that tick with the satchel swingers that he was never going to be able to afford to pay, and that he was still around running the racing show instead of punting his parliamentary pension check away on payday down at the Yeronga RSL.

coops.jpg

Russell Cooper – National Party

An off the wall selection to fill the hole in the trifecta, but old Rusty was a very safe pair of hands even if he did like to put them in the parliamentary till, and he got on well with pretty much everybody on the track and under his watch Queensland racing chugged along just fine.

While he didn’t do too much that was overly spectacular, even the harshest cynic would be hard pressed to put their finger on anything much he did wrong.

Put up against the never-ending debacles under subsequent Racing Ministers over the past twenty years that’s like winning the Melbourne Cup.

————————————————————————————————————————————–

THE WORST

goldinbout.jpg

Andrew Fraser – Australian Labor Party

I could bang on forever about how this one-time colleague of mine turned racing in Queensland into a train wreck is ultimately responsible for all the ills that ail racing to this day still,  but I don’t have 3 days and ten thousand pages to even start the story, and it would be like telling racing people how to suck eggs anyway.

Fraser was f*cking disaster for racing, just as he was for rail, ports, forests, State finances and just about everything else other than property developers, business donations to the ALP, and his own self-interest.

Take a look at how he’s slaying them in his latter day NRL board role – attendances, integrity and footy fan base that is – and you’ll see everything you need to know.

The Golden Boy’s reign as Racing Minister was nothing more than a bad dream and a joke, except it was anything but funny.

The Worst Racing Minister of the past 40 decades, bar none. If he’d been a horse instead of a horse’s arse you would have shot him.

formdick.jpg

Steve Dickson – Liberal National Party

The gold stopped flowing out of Mt Morgan about a hundred years ago, but if it hadn’t this lad from the town would have made a squillion on the carnival circuit from punters willing to pay a pineapple note to watch him say “Abracadabra!” and turn it into a shit sandwich.

This karate-kicking one-time caravan park owner and opal fossicker, and all round full-time fool, saw the racing industry as nothing but a political tool to beat his Labor opponents around the head with and used it accordingly and utterly irresponsibly, instituting hugely costly inquiries that found nothing (even though there was plenty there if they’d looked under the right rock), putting clueless LNP pawns into key positions they couldn’t perform, and raising prizemoney to impressive but ridiculously unsustainable levels that placed owners, trainers and breeders who’d relied on them in a highly invidious position not long later when the increases inevitably had to be pulled.

That Dickson later went on to change horse’s halfway through a race and now hangs out on weekends with Pauline Hanson probably paints the full picture of the bloke far better than I ever could.

If you’ve taken Dickson in a straight out exacta with Fraser on top then head for the payout queue punters because they’ve run 1-2 and gapped the rest.

gracegrace.jpg

Grace Grace – Australian Labor Party

Prior to the former plodding union hack’s ring-in to the Racing portfolio Gerry Bellino’s mother’s sister’s kid had never been to the track or had a bet in a TAB in her whole life, wasn’t quite sure where Doomben was, and didn’t know the difference between a fetlock and Fine Cotton.

Nothing’s changed really, and it shows.

That Grace Grace (picture above at the Ipswich Cup with her date Honest Paul Pisasale) can even remotely imagine that she is a great Racing Minister is both a testament to the strange power of self-delusion and a sad indictment of in inefficacy of modern day psychiatric medicine.

If Grace is great then I’m Gunsynd and the Cav combined.

 

The Shark Babe, Has Such Teeth Dear, And it Shows Them Pearly White – Why Smart-Arse Sydney Lawyers and Blokes Called Little Dickie Should Never Threaten Race Fit Bunger Boys – A Short, Sharp Lesson About Collateral Damage and the Israeli Doctrine of Disproportionate Force – Part 1: Play it Again Sam, Play it Like You Did Before

On the 1st of July 2014 UBET – a subsidiary of the Tatts Group -kicked off their new 30 year exclusive contract with the Queensland Government to run the State’s TABs and racecourse Totes, and champagne corks were popping all over the joint at Tatts because they’d just been gifted an absolute bloody damned diamond mine, an licence to print money hand over foot until the most of the Director’s died, and every bugger on the top floor of the old Golden Casket Office where I once used to count the scratchies and trouser the ones that hadn’t been stamped knew it.

Snagging the river of gold had turned out to be a piece of piece in the end. All they’d had to do lousy few 5 figure tax-deductible bucks at the LNP Government, tip a few key government decision makers into a couple of decidedly good share deals, run a number of brown paper bag blinds behind companies owned or controlled by their majority shareholder – a leading Brisbane businessman who shall remained unnamed Mr Rudd, Campion, Langby and Bloody Wilson – and then pull out the Thumper card by lying, lying like f*ck and then lying some more about relocating their headquarters to new digs built to a Brisbane businessman who shall remain unnamed.

ajka;.jpg

The lying like Thumper thing was easy: they’d been doing it for years, and those cash-hungry suckers from the LNP would cop anything if there was a quick margin call share profit quid in it, or a few key marginal seat votes to be gained.

ly1

He’s an excellent mathematician that journo Tony Grant-Taylor. 110 into 2400 ain’t half Einstein, it’s only about four and a half percent, and all of them are bosses on big bucks who in the main fly into Vegas every Monday morning and out every Friday night.

The LNP didn’t really give a rats arse about Tatts bullsh*t. They’d extracted the juice they were after, and like all good new money spivs it was all about quick turnover. Fast deals, fast money, and fast exits before the receivers could get on your tail.

Then Can Do – a mate of my Dad’s but not of mine, and a man who laughably these days poses as a media pundit who actually knows something about politics – totally screwed up and Anna accidentally assumed the throne, and because she was just a Polish Princess bint who didn’t know sh*t from clay and was just acting as pacemaker for her stablemate when the whole bloody field fell down and left her alone and in front, she called on her Dad’s old mates to give her a hand and tell her what the bloody hell to do.

Suddenly the sly old silver fox was back in town, and standing there right before the Tatts boss’s eyes was Terry ‘Mac the Knife’ Mackenroth, grinning through the gap in his front teeth like it was the old days talking in esoteric terms about companies that splash bucketloads of coin at the conservatives, waxing lyrical about the benefits of corporate bookmakers, and musing about the brave decision of the newly elected Victorian Labor Government to cancel the multi-billion dollar new motorway contract and stare down the corporate breach of contract claims by posing the possibilities of a defence centered on claims of bribery and corruption.

The older hands among the Tatts boys had heard the Knife’s stream of consciousness soliloquy all too many times before, and remembered how the action had unfolded in 1999 when the Knife’s ALP Government had given away the crown jewels and privatised the TAB, and they remembered which politicians had grabbed the shares taking the run, and which Brisbane businessman who shall remain unnamed got special personal legislation passed allowing him to snatch half the pie, and who’d steered it through for him, and the hitherto champagne cork popping show me the money shouters suddenly went weak at knees and sh*t themselves.

Of course they rolled out the same old script – after all Guys and Dolls had been running on and off on Broadway for 70 odd years, and was still pulling the punters in droves – but this time they weren’t playing the show at La Boite, they were stepping back up to the big league and running out onto the Cauldron in the sharp glow of the lights with a million and ten fans screaming their name, or at least a small cabal of former House of Broken Dreamers doing it anyway.

Before you could blink all of a sudden political donations were flowing into the ALP coffers like goon into an alkie’s throat, and certain well-connected folk around town sporting red ties and calling their brokers ‘Comrade’ began buying up large parcels of shares in certain new tower developments owned and built by a leading Brisbane businessman who shall not be named, and before the 1st race at the Addington dogs had kicked off Tatts were telling the world that they were moving their whole operation box and dice to BrisVegas and the type of folk who spend their evenings spotting UFO’s and watching backwards across the night sky believed them.

ly12.jpg

Shares in a 17 story skyscraper built on an age-old flood plain near the regularly king-tiding Brekky Creek suddenly went through the roof, and fortunes were made quicker than Black Caviar could cover the 3/4 of a mile trip down the Flemington straight.

The Tatts execs let out a collective sigh of relief that could be heard all the way from the Gabba to Cabbage Tree Creek at Sandgate, but before they could reach for another magnum of Bolly the red light started flashing and siren sounded and the starter Mr Corby declared it a false start.

“Sh*t” said the men from Tatts in a single voice. “Why the f*ck did we ever splash so much cash at those bloody Tories?”

The second bite was on, and the heirs of Porky Morgan were trading scrip in a little-know development on a postage stamp-sized block of land at 180 Queen Street quicker than Benji Veniman was pulling the trigger on a semi-auto down south back in the days of the Melbourne Gangland War.

Faster than a Floyd Mayweather Junior left jab the Tatts head office was on the move again, event though the big boss’s bums had never actually left their plush leather seats in the Gabba and moved to the flood lands in the first place.

Guess where Tatts said they were going?

ly123.jpg

You wouldn’t read about it would you?

Except of course now you have.

Guess who the property developer at 180 Queen Street was?

If you said a leading Brisbane businessman who shall not be named you may just well have guessed right.

Mac had extracted the juice and gone back for a second drink, and now he was sated.

There were no more moves required of Tatts, not they ever made any anyway. The fly-in, fly-out executives are still perched in the old Instant Casket joint at the Gabba, and the workers still mainly toil from Melbourne, and life in the fast lane in the River City is sweeter than a just ripe pineapple picked at dawn.

Remember where this story started sportsfans?

It was the 1st of July 2014 and the Tattsbet exclusive licence to print money was kicking off on Day One.

Something else of interest also happened that day, although it was very little noticed both then and now.

A young bloke with a law degree named Samuel Adams was appointed Head of Strategy and General Counsel at Racing Queensland, and was placed in charge of the negotiation and management of wagering agreements between the State of Queensland and Tatts and little pink bet fairies began appearing in the sky.

ly1234.jpg

The old Commie Chairman Mao once famously said that every great journey began with a simple step, although the young folk of today are unfamiliar with the tale, and anyway Mao was lying because a bloke named Lao Tzu had said the same thing more than two and a half thousand years before. A bit like the Tatts scarlet moving van tale really.

He was bloody clever Chinaman that fella Mao.

So’s Archie.

Sometimes anyway.

Don’t you worry about that.

To be continued ………………..

 

Yo Where’s Da Charity Cash At Richie? – And What You Got Against Da Ladies Coming to Lunch Mr Real Estate Man? – The Mystery Surrounding the Great Two Hatted $150 Grand Eagle Farm Affair Deepens – And Suddenly The Captain Starts Asking Little Dickie the Hard Questions – If Mr Morrison Thought Archie Was a Problem Let Me Tell Ya – He Ain’t Seen Na Na Na Nuthin’ Yet!

 

The word we are getting back from the stables is that Brisbane Racing Club board member Richard ‘Little Dickie’ Morrison – outraged by the allegedly defamatory imputations he sees in our expose of his role in the Great Two Hatted $150 Grand Affair, and our more recent questioning of his claims relating to the Kingston Town Club and its charity fundraising – has been running around the course telling people that the money raised by the King Black Flash of the Cox Plate Club has been donated for years to the Riding For the Disabled Association (RDA).

rda

The RDA is a sterling organisation that provides wonderful recreational and rehabilitative services to disable Queenslanders, and is patronised by one of my oldest friends the Mayor and his missus, both of whom suffer from the terrible ravages inflicted on the body and mind by primary progressive multiple sclerosis and have few outlets for enjoyment of the kind taken for granted by able bodied persons.

The Mayor and his missus love the RDA and so do I, and if only Little Dickie’s tale was less tall and more true it would warm my heart and immediately mean that I’d view him through much softer lens’d glasses. I’d almost even call him a good bloke instead of viewing him as a rascal, that’s how much his donations to RDA would mean to me.

But alas poor Dickie, I knew him well even though I never knew him at all, so I got hold of the Riding For the Disabled Queensland annual reports and financial statements for the past four years – 2013-2016 – and blow me down with a bloody feather they have only received $41 grand during that time that isn’t directly accounted for, and sadly just like the man I saw yesterday upon the stair who wasn’t there, the name ‘Kingston Town Club’ is nowhere to be found anywhere in any of the  various reports.

So where then did Dickie’s clubs donations go?  If he didn’t give them to the RDA, then who exactly did he give them to?

It remains a mystery.

Just as the workings of the Kingston Town Club (KTC) itself remain a mystery.

From the intelligence I was able to gather around the track on Saturday arvo at Doomben it appears that the KTC was formed in the late 80’s by a fella named John Fitzgerald (not to be confused with the trainer of the same name) – who at the time was an employee of the old Queensland Turf Club and later Racing Queensland – and his mates as a reaction to being denied membership of the prestigious and time-honored Bernborough Club (a club which I always thought was oddly named given that Bernborough had been banned from running outside of Toowoomba by the QTC for most of his racetrack career).

Apparently when Fitzgerald moved up to the red heart to run the Alice Springs racing club the KTC fell into disarray for a number of years before being revived by Chris Condon, the convivial host of the Queens Arms Hotel and major sponsor and supporter of racing, and the second coming of the club’s men’s only boozy lunches on a school day afternoon functions were held as the time-honored pub until being switched to the function room at Eagle Farm last year, a move some say was related to Little Dickie’s role in the Great Two Hatted $150 Grand Affair, although you’ll always find plenty of knockers on a race track wherever you go in the world.

The question remains though, and they include:

Is the Kingston Town Club registered anywhere as a charity, and if not is it acting in accord with the law when it sells raffle and other tickets, including those in sweeps Which charities (if any) is the KTC slinging their profits to Who are the mysterious committee members who sit alongside Little Dickie on the club’s board

I have two more to add to the mix.

lilduck.jpg

The first is when exactly did Little Dickie Morrison become involved with the club, given that in the early 1980’s when the club was formed he was a little nipper who hadn’t even reached double digits in the age department, and that he didn’t become old enough to legally place a bet or knock down a beet until about 1994?

My second question is one not actually posed by me  by my daughter, the krypto-fascist feminist who at school and home alike is known by one and all as The Captain because that’s what she is; literally, figuratively and in practice (under our breath though the bride and I refer to her as Hitler, but not when she’s in earshot).

lilduckaa.jpg

The Captain wants to know why the Kingston Town Club is so f*cking sexist (her exact words, not mine) that the c*nts (her words again) think in the 21st f*cking century (her again) it’s O-f*cking-K (I try to tell her that she’s the Captain, and is supposed to set an example to the kiddies at school, but she tells me to f*ck off) to hold boys only lunched and WTF (her again) do they classify a Gentleman as? Some stupid d*ckhead (yep, her) who thinks a woman’s place is in the kitchen or the f*cking (and again) fashions on the field getting wolf-whistled by misogynist aled-up arseholes (maybe my pleas to soften her language are finally being heard).

“Haven’t the troglodyte cave-dwelling c*nts heard of the f*cking Anti-Discrimination Act? And what the f*ck is the Brisbane Racing Club and f*cking Racing Queensland doing encouraging this blokey f*cking bullsh*t crap? Don’t the d*ckheads have a goddamn lawyer who can spell out the f*cking law on discrimination to the pr*cks? I suppose what the f*ck do you expect from a pack of primeval pr*cks who don’t even have a single f*cking woman on their board?”

Maybe she didn’t listen to my pleas after all.

But if you take all the foul-mouthed little off-the-scale genius’s profanities out it’s a damn good question isn’t it?

When the Supreme Court unlocks the closed membership shop for me and I get elected as a Director I’ll put it to Dickie and the board direct.

I doubt they’ll be willing to answer it right now, although I’m buggered if I can see why not.  After all, I’m sure no-one on the BRC has anything to hide.

And they’ll be racing at Eagle Farm next week.

But where did all the donations go Little Dickie, tell us where they went.

The King, The Man, and the Hundred and Fifty Grand – Unnamed Charity Slings, Race Fans, and Everyone Making a Quid Out of Someone Else’s Land – A Short Little Series of Questions About Dining, Chugging Cans and Mates Giving Mates a Helping Hand

KINGTOWEN

Richard ‘Little Dickie’ Morrison

KINGTOWEN12KINGTOWEN1621.jpg

KINGTOWEN13KINGTOWEN14

So for four years Little Dickie Morrison is a committee member of an association called the Kingston Town Club that ‘hosts annual racing function raising money for various charities each year’.

Funny that, I always believed that annual and each year meant the same thing, but that’s probably just Archie being grammatically pedantic.

Let’s be objectively serious instead, and ask a few hard questions.

What exactly is the Kingston Town Club – or what was it until about 12 months ago – other than a triple Cox Plate winning lotharian lad’s excuse to piss off the girls for the day and get on the fang and the grog with friends and old boys?

When was the Kingston Town Club actually registered as an association or charity?

Who apart from Little Dickie Morrison is on the club’s committee?

How does a fan of the mighty black TJ Smith trained flash join this club?

Where does one find a copy of its constitution?

They’re good questions aren’t they?

But here’s two sets of questions that are even better.

The first simply requires two yes/no answers:

What are the names of the charities that the Kingston Town Club donated thousands of dollars to each year from 2011-2015, and can the Club Treasurer – whoever he may be – show us the receipts?

The second calls for several, and includes a bit of background:

In the same year that Knight Frank – the company that Richard Morrison directed – was awarded a ‘competitively tendered’ and ‘independently’ assessed $150 000 contract to ‘market’ the sell off of long-owned Brisbane Racing Club land, how and why did the club:

(a) Find itself landed in tens of millions of dollars of hitherto unknown debt?

(b) Allow a Club Director’s company to hold the ‘marketing’ contract, and the Director to personally manage and perform the contracted tasks?

(c) Change Richard Morrison’s Director profile in the BRC annual report to the effect that it now asserted that he had raised more than $100 000 for various charities?

KINGTOWEN16

(d) Host a Kingston Town Club luncheon in the club’s rooms three months prior to it’s usual meeting on Cox Plate Day each year?

(e) Was it for the purpose of raising substantial funds that could be donated to charity in the same financial year that the BRC had awarded Morrison’s company a $150 000 contract?

(f) Did the BRC charge the Kingston Town Club (‘KRC’) a fee for the room hire for the event?

(g) If not, why not?

(h) Did the BRC issue an invoice to the Kingston Town Club for the cost of catering for the event, including but not exclusive to the cost of food, beverages and staff wages?

(i) If yes, were the invoice or invoices paid? And can you show us the receipts?

(j) if not, why not?

Call me crazy brave or call me stupid, particularly in light of the fact that Little Dickie has already flagged an intention to sue to try to shut me up, but I reckon that if something looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quack like a duck then the bookmakers will be setting the odds very short that it is a duck, or a beer drinking boys day on the booze born again for 150 000 good reasons as an unincorporated and unregistered fund-raising charity.

Quack.

 

 

Just in Case You Forgot or Never Knew, This is the Story That Got a Racing Queensland Director Sacked – Oh Dear Me I Think it Might Just Have Been Me Who Wrote it Too – “The Racists Are Now In Charge of the Racing Queensland Ranch – I Guess That’s the Last Time Darley or Godolphin Race a Horse North of the Tweed River – Thanks a Bundle Mr Rundle” – First Published 4 April 2016

Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

jimmi2345678

Jim Rundle, the new State Government appointee to the Racing Queensland board is a racist.

An Islam-loathing, halal-boycotting extremist who associates with and supports right wing nut-jobs and kooks of the Cronulla riots variety.

The man is a disgrace, and is completely and utterly unfit to represent the racing industry on the statewide board that runs the code.

Doesn’t the fool understand that the biggest racing stables in Australia are owned by Muslims?

Do the names Darley and Godolphin mean nothing to him? You know, those horses that race in all blue and are usually trained by John O’Shea and ridden by James McDonald? The ones that win a whole bunch of the big races

Has he never heard of the Sheikhs? They’ve owned a few Melbourne Cup winners I believe.

What about Dato Chin Nam, Bart Cummings 50 year friend who owned Saintly, the ’96 Cox Plate and Cup winner?

Does anyone imagine that any of these high-profile owners will ever bring a horse from their super-sized stables to the Brisbane Winter Carnival again while this clown Rundle is in charge of the Queensland circus?

jimmi23456789

And what about the sponsors?

Do you imagine that Cadbury and Nestle will fall over themselves to sponsor races in Queensland when the bloke representing the code at the highest level is publicly advocating a boycott of their products?

Not on your life son.

And aren’t secondary boycotts illegal under Corporations Law anyway?

nestlecdadbury

What about women?

Describing them as whores is not quite what I would call socially acceptable.

I wonder if Grace Grace appreciates the label? Or Annastacia? Or Michelle Payne?

jimmi234567894

Just take a look at the rubbish that this man Rundle posts on his Facebook page.

If this offensive tripe doesn’t cause huge insult to Australian racing’s Islamic community then I don’t know what would.

And by the way, isn’t vilification of folk based on their religion illegal?

Too right it is.

jimmi2345678946

jimmi234

If all of this isn’t enough on its own, then just look at the organisations that Rundle’s republishing these highly offensive posts from.

Reclaim Australia for goodness sake.

The far, far-right wing nut jobs. The mob supported by Pauline Hanson.

rec

Australians United Against Extreme Racism.

Extremists themselves. Nutters. Hate criminals.

How is this moron fit to hold any form of Government appointed office?

Simple answer – he’s not.

Annastacia Palaczszuk needs to act, and act immediately, for failing to do sends a clear message both to Queenslanders and to the racing world at large that the Premier condones the type of derogatory and highly offensive public statements and comments that Rundle has published on social media.

It’s just not on.

Jim Rundle must be sacked today.

jimmi23456jimmi